


His Last Trial

by Miss M (missm)



Series: The World Beyond [4]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Christmas, Established Relationship, Father-Daughter Relationship, M/M, happiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-03 02:59:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2835542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/pseuds/Miss%20M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean Valjean and the coming of goodness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Last Trial

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the same continuity as [this story](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1031871/chapters/2055834) and taking place a few months after the events there, but can probably be read on its own. Thank you so much to Stripy for beta-reading!

It was still dark when he woke, night rather than morning, but the room was illuminated faintly by the snow outside. Between the window blinds there was a gap, large enough for him to see the flakes fall in soft, solid clumps. Today would be cold; they should get a fiacre when going to Mass. 

He stretched out, then shifted a little, still half-asleep. In response, the body next to him moved as well. An arm tightened its grasp around his waist -- not hard enough to hurt, or even hold him fast, simply an unconscious reminder that he should not leave, that he was wanted where he was. Valjean went still, and the arm relaxed, a soft sigh tickling his ear. He closed his eyes, listening to that breath, waiting to fall asleep again. 

It was not the first night they had spent together like this, bodies pressed close together as much by their own free will as by necessity -- the bed was narrow, but Javert would share it with him rather than leave it for the divan they had brought in the room for appearances' sake, for those times when Javert had stayed at the Rue de l'Homme-Armée for dinner, and it was late, and it would be hard to find a fiacre at this time of night... And sometimes, like last night, they would make love there, stealthily and silently under the blankets, more careful than they would be when spending the night at Javert's lodgings, but not any less passionate for it. 

The air in the room was chilly. In summer, it had been far too stuffy for them to lie wrapped together like this, though they had done it anyway; now, sharing each other's heat, it was barely warm enough. They'd pulled their nightshirts back on, but their legs were bare and tangled under the blankets, and he rubbed one of his calves along Javert's for some moments, for no particular reason, simply because he could. 

It was hard to grasp. It was hard to believe that he could be deserving of so much joy. Often it threatened to be overwhelming, filling his heart with an emotion so strong it was nearly unbearable: in those moments, he almost wished for God to take this new and unexpected happiness away before he could get used to it, before he could let himself think it real. But each time this ungrateful thought came to him, he would shy away from it; he was a sinner, but he knew he must accept what his Saviour asked of him. If to love and be loved was his life's last great trial, he would face it with gladness. 

He turned, gently so as not to disturb Javert, and propped himself lightly up on his elbow. Asleep, Javert's face was open, almost soft. His breathing was even, his expression peaceful and utterly content, like that of a man who could want for nothing. A man -- not a guard dog, not a weapon, not a threat, but a living breathing man who shared his bed. 

Running a finger over Javert's brow, he traced the lines there, brushing a stray lock of hair aside. How strange to touch another person like this. How strange to want and be wanted.

He had never imagined it, having been so used to loneliness that it felt a part of him, like the scars on his back. But on that Christmas Eve eight years ago, love had come into his life, in the shape of a child who only knew terror and yet who had never feared him. And then, as he had been preparing to meet the end of his life in solitude, love had come again, in the shape of a man who knew nothing of gentleness and yet was capable of immense devotion.

He settled back down, resting his head on Javert's shoulder and closing his eyes. Javert let out a light snore. His arm came to rest on Valjean's waist once more, his body relaxing as though he had been disturbed in his slumber after all. Valjean pressed a kiss to his collar bone and waited for sleep to reclaim him as well.

How very strange. 

 

~ 

 

At breakfast, they could still see the snow whirling about outside, but Toussaint had built a great fire and the kitchen was warm. It was the first time they had spent Christmas in the apartment on the Rue de l'Homme-Armé: in earlier years, they would have the evening meal in the house before going to Mass, and he would spend the day in his own shack in the back garden, but this year was not like the years before, and the coming years would not be like them either. 

"I do hope it will clear up a bit," Cosette said, pouring coffee for them all. "If it goes on like this, my dress will be all soggy by the time it takes us to find a fiacre. I shouldn't like to turn up at Monsieur Gillenormand's looking like a wet cat." She turned to Javert. "Will you be joining us, Inspector?" 

She still addressed him by his old title. Valjean thought it had bothered Javert to begin with, when he was grappling with the aftermath of the barricade and the question of how to proceed; furthermore, he still had no patience with falsehoods of any kind, and he was no longer of the police. But perhaps Cosette's use of the term was accepted because it reminded him, as it did Valjean, of those hectic first days in June, when they both had experienced some of the greatest shocks in their lives, and come out the richer for it -- he himself would never forget what it had felt like, for the first time to hear his own name spoken aloud from his daughter's lips. 

Javert shifted a bit, clearly uncomfortable with the prospect of paying the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire a visit. "No, thank you, I should head back to my own lodgings for the day. I will be joining you for supper tonight, however, if the invitation still holds." 

His tone was neutral, but Valjean did not miss the unspoken request for reassurance. He pressed his knee lightly against Javert's for a moment and took a sip of coffee. 

"Of course it does," Cosette chided mildly. "What a thing to say. Here! Try the rolls. Toussaint has been teaching me to bake. It's quite enjoyable, really. Whenever I worried about Marius these last months, I would punch the dough and throw it about for a while. Toussaint says I have talent." 

"They are very good," Valjean said, smiling at her. She was so lovely, so bright, so full of life, dressed for the occasion in a new red gown. "You should bring a basket for the Gillenormands."

"Do you think so? I don't know if they'd find it proper for Marius's fiancée to bake, or cook. I can't imagine Mademoiselle Gillenormand doing such work." She cocked her head, frowning, as if expecting an answer. 

Valjean shrugged, feeling his face heat a little. "I wouldn't know," he said, again concentrating on his coffee. 

It still pained him how little he knew of what was right and proper behaviour for a young lady about to enter society. What life had he given her? Dresses and furniture and pianofortes, yes, but those were but superficial objects, more easy to acquire than knowledge of the Gillenormands' world. What if Cosette should be scrutinised, criticised, shunned, for having flawed manners or insufficient ideas of decorum? The fault would be his alone. 

This time, Javert's knee pressed against his. He looked up. Javert gave him a light smile, then turned to Cosette. "Bring a basket and present it to the housekeeper as a gift from your household," he suggested. "If they ask whether you made the rolls yourself, say yes; otherwise they will assume it is all Toussaint's work. No matter. The lady of the house is usually given credit when her servants do good work. In my experience, anyway." 

He stopped abruptly, colouring, as if taken aback by his own audacity in offering advice. But Cosette laughed, helping herself to another bread roll and beaming at them both. "Excellent!" she said. "In that case Toussaint and I will both receive some well-deserved accolades -- or the opposite, perhaps, if they don't enjoy the rolls. It is her old recipe, anyway." 

Valjean smiled. He resisted the desire to reach out and cover Javert's hand with his own; instead, he watched him over the rim of his cup, the flush that was still on his face, the way his eyes sought Valjean's for a moment before his mouth curved in a slight smile, the way he then bent over his bread roll and buttered it meticulously. Then Valjean looked at Cosette, her bright eyes, her red cheeks, glowing happiness and health. She, too, met his eyes for a moment, and her smile grew even lovelier.

"Have another bread roll, Father. Have two!" 

Valjean took a roll from the basket she held out for him. The logs were crackling in the fireplace; the room smelled of fresh coffee. He thought of the old shack at the Rue Plumet and tried to feel wistful, but found he couldn't. 

 

~ 

 

A lull in the snowfall meant Cosette's dress was still dry as they climbed into the fiacre, and though the driver warned them the ride might take a little longer than usual because of the roads, she was in high spirits. "Don't you think it's lovely outside?" she asked, pressing Valjean's hand. "We should walk back home from Mass tonight, if the weather stays clear. Do you think the Inspector would mind?" 

"I'm sure he wouldn't." He found himself smiling, his heart aching with tenderness. What a gift he had been given, that she should love him so steadfastly, even after everything that had been revealed! And not only that, but that she should also accept Javert's presence, rejoicing in the fact that her father had a friend. That was all she had been given to know of their liaison, and she embraced it with gladness -- wrapped in her own youthful love and joy, to be sure, and not prone to asking questions, although he suspected she would keep her thoughts to herself, should her curiosity about the nights Javert spent with them, or the nights he himself spent at Javert's, ever be raised. 

It was selfish of him, perhaps, but now that desire for another human being had been roused in him, for the first time in his life, he found himself powerless to resist it: he could no more abstain from Javert's kisses, his touch, his body, than he could live without Cosette's smiles or beloved voice. It did not feel wrong, though if it was, he would leave it to God to judge. 

"Next year, we'll celebrate Christmas together, all of us. Wouldn't that be nice?" She took his hand again, holding it between both of hers, seeking his eyes, serious all of a sudden. "Father, you _are_ happy, aren't you?" 

The question, seemingly coming out of nowhere, took him aback. He blinked. Then he swallowed. She was watching him earnestly, gravely, her slender fingers firm around his palm -- if he had tried to pull away in that moment, she would not have let him go. He remembered how he had meant to run away, to escape, in order to save her chance at happiness. For the first time he realised how much pain he would have caused her, and he swallowed again, his eyes suddenly stinging. 

"Cosette," he said softly, raising his free hand to touch her cheek. She kept her eyes on him, unyielding, waiting for an answer. He had never been good at giving her those. Even now, they rarely talked about his past; he could sometimes sense a desire in her to ask, which she curbed for fear of upsetting him, and he himself could not unprompted find it in himself to unlock the words, unleash the memories within. 

But this question, at least, he could answer, and do so truthfully. 

"Yes," he said as the fiacre turned into the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire. He stroked her cheek again, smoothing away a loose strand of hair, like he had done sometimes when she was still a child. "I am. With all my being. And you will be as well." 

 

~ 

 

Javert waited for them outside the church that night, near the entrance. Valjean's heart gave a jump at the sight of that tall figure, standing straight with his hands behind his back, and again he was struck by the wonder of it, that seeing Javert in a crowd should send a jolt through him that had nothing to do with fear. 

Arm in arm with Cosette, he made his way through the crowd, Javert spotting them when they were only a few feet away. His eyes met Valjean's and his face lit up in quiet joy. "Good evening," he said, tipping his hat for Cosette and shaking Valjean's hand. "And Merry Christmas." 

"Merry Christmas," Cosette said. "How has your day been, Inspector?" 

"Quite uneventful, thank you." Javert let go of Valjean's hand, turning towards the door. "Should we go inside?" 

As they found their seats in the crowded church, Javert murmured in his ear, "Was it terrible?" 

Valjean knew exactly what he meant. He felt his mouth twitch. "It was bearable," he murmured back, making sure Cosette wouldn't hear. "We are going back there for dinner tomorrow. You are invited as well." 

"Me?" For a second, Javert looked so terrified -- like a mouse caught in a trap -- that Valjean almost laughed. Then he shook his head. "Why, who am I to..." 

"As far as they are concerned, you helped save Marius," Valjean said. He had mentioned this before, the Gillenormands' gratitude, but Javert seemed not to have grasped it. "And you are my friend. Isn't that enough?" 

Javert gave him a long look, naked affection gradually joined by defeat. "I suppose I shall have to go, then." 

They took their seats. And as they sat -- and as they stood, and knelt, and prayed -- Valjean's thoughts kept returning to this: that he would never be lonely again; that where he went, Javert would go too, and do so gladly; that Cosette must, and should, leave him, but never be out of reach. 

Voices soared through the church in joyful hymns, celebrating the coming of goodness. The priest called upon his parishioners to remember their good fortune. Valjean glanced to either side of him, Javert on the left and Cosette to the right, and knew himself blessed.

 

~ 

 

After Mass, Cosette said she would take a fiacre back home after all: it had been a long day at the Gillenormands', and she was tired. "You will walk?" she asked as she climbed into the carriage. "It's not too cold?" 

Valjean gave her money for the fare and shook his head. "We have warm coats, you know." 

"At least mine is warm," Javert added dryly behind him. "That old thing you're wearing is far too threadbare for my liking." 

Cosette laughed, brushing a hand over Valjean's shoulder. "It really is quite hideous." 

Valjean smiled faintly. The yellow coat had served him well for years; there were enough people in this world who had no coats at all -- and certainly he did not feel cold tonight, when his heart was large and warm with love and thankfulness. "We won't be long. I'm sure Toussaint will have the meal ready by the time we get there." 

"Oh, I'm sure. Soon, then!" She gave them both a wave and withdrew into the fiacre. The carriage set off, rather slowly at first as the horse found its footing on the snow. 

Valjean and Javert followed it, walking side by side without speaking, the snow somehow cushioning the noises of the city. The quiet was a relief. Lights glittered everywhere, from the outside of houses and in lamp posts to the sky above, where thousands of stars stood out against the dark expanse of the night. 

They were close to the Seine now, and he stopped to watch the river for a moment. Then he walked to the parapet that ran along the embankment. Not too far from here, he had seen Javert getting ready to throw his life away one night in June. After that night, everything had changed. How quickly it all had happened, when it came down to it! Now he was standing here, happier than he had any right to be, himself in the eyes of those he loved -- and only God knew how such a thing had come to pass, as only God's grace could have made it happen. 

Javert came to stand next to him by the parapet. "Valjean?" 

He turned. Javert was looking at him hesitantly, somewhat warily, as if he expected him to say something about that thwarted attempt at escape. To reassure him, Valjean moved closer, leaning against him a little. They stood like that for a moment. 

"Tell me." Javert was staring out at the river, his jaw working. "Tell me your thoughts." 

"I was thinking," Valjean said, "of how unpredictable life is. When I was a young man, I never had any dreams or hopes in life. Then my path was laid by what happened. It seemed inescapable. But so many unexpected things have happened, and now -- look! Here we are." He moved a bit closer to Javert still. "Could you ever have imagined something like this?" 

Javert turned to him then. There was something wild, almost desperate in his eyes, visible even in the dark night and the shadow. "Valjean," he said, voice low and intense. "You don't know how it pains me. If I could change what happened to you... If I could remove even one of those scars you carry, I would give anything -- anything!" 

The last word almost sounded like a sob. Valjean stepped closer still, putting his hand over Javert's where it clutched the paraphet in front of them. "No," he whispered. "There is no purpose. How do we know another path would have been better? Every step I've taken -- every choice you made -- it led us here." 

Another sob-like sound escaped Javert's mouth. He trembled, then reached for Valjean, pulling him close. In the darkness, they embraced, seen only by the stars and the river and the large looming shadow of the cathedral. 

It was true, Valjean thought as they resumed their walk, arm in arm now, at a brisker pace than before so as not to be late for the meal. Despite everything that had happened to him, he could not deny the blessings of his life -- happiness was his, unasked for and unexpected, and he could not imagine himself a richer man.


End file.
